sobota
in
team_savvy
this is our decision (to live fast and die young)
this is our decision (to live fast and die young)
inception, eames-centric with arthur, eames/mal
r
drug/alcohol abuse, language
2087 words
this is a derivative fan-work, no profit is being made
title from "time to pretend" by mgmt. written for two prompts at inception_kink: here and here.
There would be no Eames without Arthur.
Arthur could extract Eames from many a precarious situation, with tact or with violence, and come out with hands clean. There he would be, in pristine and obnoxious order, his ruby tiepin and ampersand cufflinks always straight and clean, and he would come for Eames. He would come for Eames in Thailand, in Mexico, in Russia. He would pay Euros or baht or rubles, but he would come for Eames.
Eames would lean against Arthur in whatever luxury car he had chosen that time, and mumble, slurred with drink and drugs and sloppy with sex, "My darling Arthur, whatever should I do without you."
And Arthur would pull out a monogrammed silk handkerchief and wipe Eames's lips or the crusted blood under his nose, and tuck the handkerchief away. "Well, you would die," he would reply.
Arthur stopped smiling a long time ago, and neither of them remembered what it looked like.
Eames had gone to the poshest schools and taken the poshest courses, and used his father's money, mostly to fuel whatever silly desire he had at the time. He went to America to study at the Dream Institute, and became an expert in all things dealing with the dream state, but especially forgery and deception.
That was where he met Arthur. Arthur was a student there as well, and while he pretended to be well-bred, Eames just snorted. "Your suits are all off the rack, you silly poseur," Eames growled, and took him to New York, to Yves Saint Laurent and Dolce & Gabana, and his own personal tailor, where Eames dressed Arthur like the mannequin he was. Arthur was whippet thin with wrist bones like fine porcelain, high cheekbones and dark eyes. The first real suit he tried on, Eames was startled by the appearance of dimples before Arthur settled back into his customary scowl.
Eames had fallen in love with him then and there, but Arthur would have none of it.
They were inseparable, and inseparably brilliant together. Eames used the intel Arthur gathered to create and deceive, and Arthur could always depend on Eames to give him the best of anything he desired.
"There is a weakness in his soul," Eames's father, Reginald, had declared the one time Arthur had the pleasure to make his acquaintance. Eames was in a rehab centre in Nice. "A lust, if you will, that will never be sated."
Reginald had levelled Arthur with a direct gaze; he had the same denim-grey eyes as Eames. "You are the only person he trusts in this entire blasted universe. Take care that it remains that way, or we will lose him forever."
After the stint in rehab, Eames vowed never to return to Nice, and took Arthur to Monaco, where he lost five million Euros and crashed an Aston Martin. Arthur left him, returned to the United States, and enrolled in a masters program.
My darling, darling, darling
I only keep myself so sick in the head
so that I know you'll stay by my side.
yours, DCE
Eames found him in Vermont. He was wearing a pseudo-vintage grey cotton shirt and impossible jeans. He had lost so much weight and he clung to the doorframe like his legs would betray him at any moment. Arthur made him come in, made him get into his bed, pulled off his fine Italian oxfords, and stared him down.
"I'm feeling rough, I'm feeling raw," Eames managed, looking up at Arthur. "I'm in the prime of my life."
Arthur made him coffee, and sat on the edge of the bed. He made no reply, just smoothed the wrinkles in Eames's forehead with his thumb.
"The Lord helps those who help themselves," Eames said, sitting up and taking the coffee, made with more cream and sugar than anything else. "He's helped me by finding you."
Arthur clenched his fist. It was all he could do not to punch Eames. "Eames-"
"No, Arthur. Swear this instant you will never let me alone like this again." Eames rubbed his face. "I cannot, will not, abide by your abandonment."
"And when you get yourself killed in some freak accident or at the point of some angry man's gun, where do you think that will leave me?" Arthur sighed. "There's no arguing with your fucking selfishness, but this-" He swung his arm out to indicate his flat, or maybe his life, "This is mine, the only thing I can call mine, because when we met two years ago, you swallowed me whole."
Eames stared into the mug, sipping at the coffee as if he hadn't heard. "Come with me to Brazil. It's almost Carnival. Let's get away from this miserable state."
"I am not giving up school just to follow you to another part of the planet and watch you fuck up again." Arthur stood up. "Stay the night, pull yourself the fuck together."
Eames ended up staying a fortnight, and Arthur went with him to Carnival, and watched him go through women and drugs and so much money. Arthur drove, so no cars were crashed, although Eames certainly did try.
"I will sedate you and handcuff you to the bed," Arthur declared one night, at his limit, after another caipirihna had Eames nuzzling Arthur's neck and leaving love bites behind his ear.
"Oh, Arthur darling, I had no idea you felt that way about me," Eames huffed against Arthur's skin, and Arthur had pushed Eames's face away, but smiled and bought him another cocktail.
It was a damned shame that Eames was so intent on destroying himself, because he was, in all actuality, brilliant. He managed to con a PASIV device from the Dream Institute, and he and Arthur worked brilliantly together to extract state secrets, corporate secrets, romantic secrets. Whoever paid top dollar got their combined forces, and it seemed that they were unstoppable. However, brilliance only came if Eames were not completely inebriated and bellicose. Arthur took jobs by himself while Eames cooled his heels in one rehab centre or another.
"You know, if you keep refusing to go to cities where you were in rehab, we're not going to be able to go anywhere very soon," Arthur said one day after a very lush job had them holed up in an expansive suite in Las Vegas. Eames had just stared out at the strip contemplatively, and then declared he was going out.
Arthur received a call two days later from the Cook County jail, and went to bail Eames out with a hard-set scowl. As soon as they were out of the vicinity of the jail, Arthur slammed his fist into Eames's face, and suffered two broken knuckles for his trouble. Eames's nose had to be reconstructed.
They separated for two months, until Eames's mother called in a panic. "Please, Arthur, please," she said, her voice husky with tears. "He's been begging for you."
Arthur found his way to Kensington, where Eames's mother had a well-appointed flat with five 'house managers' as Eames had always called butlers and maids.
Georgina Eames was the most astoundingly beautiful woman Arthur had ever seen. Tall, thin, with sad blue eyes and Eames's mouth; Arthur decided that no graceful beauty like her could have ever had a child like Eames. She gripped his hand, and then wrapped him into a decidedly out of character hug, her eyes still glistening with tears.
"Oh, Arthur," she breathed. "I have unleashed a monster." She pulled back and dabbed at her eyes. "There is no controlling him."
Arthur straightened his shoulders. "Cut him off. Don't give him any money to fuel this rage."
Georgina tilted her head. "Impossible," she whispered. "He's my son."
Arthur made his way to where Eames was tucked up in bed. There were rope burns around his neck. The only evidence of a broken nose was a scar across the bridge, but there was a new scar on his eyebrow. He almost had a full beard.
"What, no safety razors, either?"
After two months, it was not the statement Arthur thought he would start with.
"They think I'll try to take them apart," Eames said.
Arthur grunted and got a razor and shaving cream, and straddled Eames. They did not talk while Arthur shaved him, but Eames kept a hand on Arthur's thigh, as if to anchor him there.
After he wiped off the excess, he leaned forward and kissed Eames's forehead. "Don't you ever try anything like that again," he muttered.
"I have a son," Eames said.
Arthur, it must be said, displayed astounding patience in not punching him again. "Do you?" he muttered. "And…where is he?"
"With a nanny in Paris. Where his mother was from."
"How old is he?"
"Eighteen months." Arthur did the math in his head.
"Mal?" Arthur said. "Oh…" He slid off of Eames, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets and walking to Eames's window.
"She's dead now."
Arthur's back straightened and then his shoulders slumped. "Fuck you, Eames," he muttered. "Let's go to Paris. I want to see your son."
"His name is Sébastien," Eames said on the Express. Arthur fiddled with his watch, staring out into the Chunnel. "I've only seen him once."
Sébastien was deposited into Arthur's arms as soon as they entered the flat, and Sébastien stared at him for a long time. He had Eames's eyes and Mal's fine bone structure and dark hair. Arthur took a deep breath before putting him down and watching him toddle unsteadily.
The nanny made them lunch and Arthur kept his eyes on the boy. "You have a son," he said finally. "And yet, you still can't settle down."
Eames put his head in his hands. "That child is better off never knowing me," he whispered. "I know what I am."
"I'm only going to ask this once, but how the hell could you be so stupid?"
Eames looked up at Arthur and grinned. "Oh, darling, you have no idea."
Arthur stayed in Paris, Eames for the most part stayed with him. He refused to see Sébastien, which meant that Arthur spent a lot of time with the toddler, speaking French with him, and sometimes English when the nanny wasn't there. They went on walks, they went to museums. Eames never came.
Arthur dozed on the sofa, and Sébastien clambered next to him. "Papa, papa," he called, and Arthur startled awake.
"Non, je ne suis pas papa," Arthur said softly, but pulled Sébastien into his lap and stroked his hair. "T'as eu un cauchemar?"
Sébastien nodded miserably; nightmares had plagued him for the past week. They plagued Eames with some frequency, with almost the same results. Heads tucked against Arthur's collarbone and slow steady breathing as Arthur stroked father or son's hair.
"He calls me papa," Arthur would say on the phone later, on one of Eames's disappearing acts. "Where are you? Come to Paris."
"I'm in Mombasa, with Yusuf," Eames replied, and then said something away from the phone.
"What?"
"Nothing," Eames said. "You're a better papa than I can ever be."
"You won't know until you try. Stop pretending to be imperial and come back to Paris."
Arthur ended up having to fetch Eames in Marrakech, after an almost embarrassing international incident. They sat on Eames's private jet, Arthur playing with his food the whole while.
"Is Sébastien anything like me?" Eames said.
"Basti is a little over two," Arthur replied. "No, he's not really into the whole boozing, whoring, gambling thing."
Eames sighed. "I mean…"
"He's selfish and loud and clings to me all the time, so, in a way, yes. He speaks better French than you ever will, though."
Eames tossed the cloth napkin at Arthur's face, and Arthur caught it and set it down on the table. "Come back, meet him, spend time with him," Arthur cajoled. "He doesn't know you, and he can never know his mother. And as much time as I spend coming to save you from yourself, I can't do it this time. I cannot be a father to Sébastien, that's not my job."
Eames sighed, looking down at his half-eaten plate of food. "If he stays with me, I will destroy him."
"Two year olds are remarkably resilient," Arthur said. "I'm sure you're not going to take him out on the town to meet all your favourite whores and drug dealers."
Eames speared a piece of tuna and stuck it into his mouth, shrugging. "I've never done rehab in Paris."
inception, eames-centric with arthur, eames/mal
r
drug/alcohol abuse, language
2087 words
this is a derivative fan-work, no profit is being made
title from "time to pretend" by mgmt. written for two prompts at inception_kink: here and here.
There would be no Eames without Arthur.
Arthur could extract Eames from many a precarious situation, with tact or with violence, and come out with hands clean. There he would be, in pristine and obnoxious order, his ruby tiepin and ampersand cufflinks always straight and clean, and he would come for Eames. He would come for Eames in Thailand, in Mexico, in Russia. He would pay Euros or baht or rubles, but he would come for Eames.
Eames would lean against Arthur in whatever luxury car he had chosen that time, and mumble, slurred with drink and drugs and sloppy with sex, "My darling Arthur, whatever should I do without you."
And Arthur would pull out a monogrammed silk handkerchief and wipe Eames's lips or the crusted blood under his nose, and tuck the handkerchief away. "Well, you would die," he would reply.
Arthur stopped smiling a long time ago, and neither of them remembered what it looked like.
Eames had gone to the poshest schools and taken the poshest courses, and used his father's money, mostly to fuel whatever silly desire he had at the time. He went to America to study at the Dream Institute, and became an expert in all things dealing with the dream state, but especially forgery and deception.
That was where he met Arthur. Arthur was a student there as well, and while he pretended to be well-bred, Eames just snorted. "Your suits are all off the rack, you silly poseur," Eames growled, and took him to New York, to Yves Saint Laurent and Dolce & Gabana, and his own personal tailor, where Eames dressed Arthur like the mannequin he was. Arthur was whippet thin with wrist bones like fine porcelain, high cheekbones and dark eyes. The first real suit he tried on, Eames was startled by the appearance of dimples before Arthur settled back into his customary scowl.
Eames had fallen in love with him then and there, but Arthur would have none of it.
They were inseparable, and inseparably brilliant together. Eames used the intel Arthur gathered to create and deceive, and Arthur could always depend on Eames to give him the best of anything he desired.
"There is a weakness in his soul," Eames's father, Reginald, had declared the one time Arthur had the pleasure to make his acquaintance. Eames was in a rehab centre in Nice. "A lust, if you will, that will never be sated."
Reginald had levelled Arthur with a direct gaze; he had the same denim-grey eyes as Eames. "You are the only person he trusts in this entire blasted universe. Take care that it remains that way, or we will lose him forever."
After the stint in rehab, Eames vowed never to return to Nice, and took Arthur to Monaco, where he lost five million Euros and crashed an Aston Martin. Arthur left him, returned to the United States, and enrolled in a masters program.
My darling, darling, darling
I only keep myself so sick in the head
so that I know you'll stay by my side.
yours, DCE
Eames found him in Vermont. He was wearing a pseudo-vintage grey cotton shirt and impossible jeans. He had lost so much weight and he clung to the doorframe like his legs would betray him at any moment. Arthur made him come in, made him get into his bed, pulled off his fine Italian oxfords, and stared him down.
"I'm feeling rough, I'm feeling raw," Eames managed, looking up at Arthur. "I'm in the prime of my life."
Arthur made him coffee, and sat on the edge of the bed. He made no reply, just smoothed the wrinkles in Eames's forehead with his thumb.
"The Lord helps those who help themselves," Eames said, sitting up and taking the coffee, made with more cream and sugar than anything else. "He's helped me by finding you."
Arthur clenched his fist. It was all he could do not to punch Eames. "Eames-"
"No, Arthur. Swear this instant you will never let me alone like this again." Eames rubbed his face. "I cannot, will not, abide by your abandonment."
"And when you get yourself killed in some freak accident or at the point of some angry man's gun, where do you think that will leave me?" Arthur sighed. "There's no arguing with your fucking selfishness, but this-" He swung his arm out to indicate his flat, or maybe his life, "This is mine, the only thing I can call mine, because when we met two years ago, you swallowed me whole."
Eames stared into the mug, sipping at the coffee as if he hadn't heard. "Come with me to Brazil. It's almost Carnival. Let's get away from this miserable state."
"I am not giving up school just to follow you to another part of the planet and watch you fuck up again." Arthur stood up. "Stay the night, pull yourself the fuck together."
Eames ended up staying a fortnight, and Arthur went with him to Carnival, and watched him go through women and drugs and so much money. Arthur drove, so no cars were crashed, although Eames certainly did try.
"I will sedate you and handcuff you to the bed," Arthur declared one night, at his limit, after another caipirihna had Eames nuzzling Arthur's neck and leaving love bites behind his ear.
"Oh, Arthur darling, I had no idea you felt that way about me," Eames huffed against Arthur's skin, and Arthur had pushed Eames's face away, but smiled and bought him another cocktail.
It was a damned shame that Eames was so intent on destroying himself, because he was, in all actuality, brilliant. He managed to con a PASIV device from the Dream Institute, and he and Arthur worked brilliantly together to extract state secrets, corporate secrets, romantic secrets. Whoever paid top dollar got their combined forces, and it seemed that they were unstoppable. However, brilliance only came if Eames were not completely inebriated and bellicose. Arthur took jobs by himself while Eames cooled his heels in one rehab centre or another.
"You know, if you keep refusing to go to cities where you were in rehab, we're not going to be able to go anywhere very soon," Arthur said one day after a very lush job had them holed up in an expansive suite in Las Vegas. Eames had just stared out at the strip contemplatively, and then declared he was going out.
Arthur received a call two days later from the Cook County jail, and went to bail Eames out with a hard-set scowl. As soon as they were out of the vicinity of the jail, Arthur slammed his fist into Eames's face, and suffered two broken knuckles for his trouble. Eames's nose had to be reconstructed.
They separated for two months, until Eames's mother called in a panic. "Please, Arthur, please," she said, her voice husky with tears. "He's been begging for you."
Arthur found his way to Kensington, where Eames's mother had a well-appointed flat with five 'house managers' as Eames had always called butlers and maids.
Georgina Eames was the most astoundingly beautiful woman Arthur had ever seen. Tall, thin, with sad blue eyes and Eames's mouth; Arthur decided that no graceful beauty like her could have ever had a child like Eames. She gripped his hand, and then wrapped him into a decidedly out of character hug, her eyes still glistening with tears.
"Oh, Arthur," she breathed. "I have unleashed a monster." She pulled back and dabbed at her eyes. "There is no controlling him."
Arthur straightened his shoulders. "Cut him off. Don't give him any money to fuel this rage."
Georgina tilted her head. "Impossible," she whispered. "He's my son."
Arthur made his way to where Eames was tucked up in bed. There were rope burns around his neck. The only evidence of a broken nose was a scar across the bridge, but there was a new scar on his eyebrow. He almost had a full beard.
"What, no safety razors, either?"
After two months, it was not the statement Arthur thought he would start with.
"They think I'll try to take them apart," Eames said.
Arthur grunted and got a razor and shaving cream, and straddled Eames. They did not talk while Arthur shaved him, but Eames kept a hand on Arthur's thigh, as if to anchor him there.
After he wiped off the excess, he leaned forward and kissed Eames's forehead. "Don't you ever try anything like that again," he muttered.
"I have a son," Eames said.
Arthur, it must be said, displayed astounding patience in not punching him again. "Do you?" he muttered. "And…where is he?"
"With a nanny in Paris. Where his mother was from."
"How old is he?"
"Eighteen months." Arthur did the math in his head.
"Mal?" Arthur said. "Oh…" He slid off of Eames, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets and walking to Eames's window.
"She's dead now."
Arthur's back straightened and then his shoulders slumped. "Fuck you, Eames," he muttered. "Let's go to Paris. I want to see your son."
"His name is Sébastien," Eames said on the Express. Arthur fiddled with his watch, staring out into the Chunnel. "I've only seen him once."
Sébastien was deposited into Arthur's arms as soon as they entered the flat, and Sébastien stared at him for a long time. He had Eames's eyes and Mal's fine bone structure and dark hair. Arthur took a deep breath before putting him down and watching him toddle unsteadily.
The nanny made them lunch and Arthur kept his eyes on the boy. "You have a son," he said finally. "And yet, you still can't settle down."
Eames put his head in his hands. "That child is better off never knowing me," he whispered. "I know what I am."
"I'm only going to ask this once, but how the hell could you be so stupid?"
Eames looked up at Arthur and grinned. "Oh, darling, you have no idea."
Arthur stayed in Paris, Eames for the most part stayed with him. He refused to see Sébastien, which meant that Arthur spent a lot of time with the toddler, speaking French with him, and sometimes English when the nanny wasn't there. They went on walks, they went to museums. Eames never came.
Arthur dozed on the sofa, and Sébastien clambered next to him. "Papa, papa," he called, and Arthur startled awake.
"Non, je ne suis pas papa," Arthur said softly, but pulled Sébastien into his lap and stroked his hair. "T'as eu un cauchemar?"
Sébastien nodded miserably; nightmares had plagued him for the past week. They plagued Eames with some frequency, with almost the same results. Heads tucked against Arthur's collarbone and slow steady breathing as Arthur stroked father or son's hair.
"He calls me papa," Arthur would say on the phone later, on one of Eames's disappearing acts. "Where are you? Come to Paris."
"I'm in Mombasa, with Yusuf," Eames replied, and then said something away from the phone.
"What?"
"Nothing," Eames said. "You're a better papa than I can ever be."
"You won't know until you try. Stop pretending to be imperial and come back to Paris."
Arthur ended up having to fetch Eames in Marrakech, after an almost embarrassing international incident. They sat on Eames's private jet, Arthur playing with his food the whole while.
"Is Sébastien anything like me?" Eames said.
"Basti is a little over two," Arthur replied. "No, he's not really into the whole boozing, whoring, gambling thing."
Eames sighed. "I mean…"
"He's selfish and loud and clings to me all the time, so, in a way, yes. He speaks better French than you ever will, though."
Eames tossed the cloth napkin at Arthur's face, and Arthur caught it and set it down on the table. "Come back, meet him, spend time with him," Arthur cajoled. "He doesn't know you, and he can never know his mother. And as much time as I spend coming to save you from yourself, I can't do it this time. I cannot be a father to Sébastien, that's not my job."
Eames sighed, looking down at his half-eaten plate of food. "If he stays with me, I will destroy him."
"Two year olds are remarkably resilient," Arthur said. "I'm sure you're not going to take him out on the town to meet all your favourite whores and drug dealers."
Eames speared a piece of tuna and stuck it into his mouth, shrugging. "I've never done rehab in Paris."